


Stations & Schedules

by SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Malcolm Is A Radio DJ, Nicola Is Just Trying to Catch a Break, Post-Goolding Inquiry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:08:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28944207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff/pseuds/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff
Summary: Malcolm Tucker has a radio show. Fuck knows why. Nicola Murray is just trying to live a normal life - though fuck knows how.
Relationships: Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 48
Kudos: 23





	1. Cue Lights

**Author's Note:**

> This is - an entirely Ridiculous premise but just Bear With Me. 
> 
> This morning's songs are:  
> Telephone Line, Electric Light Orchestra  
> The Day My Pad Went Mad, John Cooper Clarke 
> 
> With thanks to those giving song recs! Feel free to drop some in the comments - predominantely 70s/80s but as you'll see - he's not very disciplined.

It’s not the nicest kiss she’s ever had in her life, but it’ll do. James knows her, even if he doesn’t particularly care about what he finds out. He’s warm, there’s something to be said about the shared warmth of another human body, and yet he’s never really _there_ , not properly. Busy. As if she’s not busy. But the kissing has always been quite nice. It’s half-dark, illuminated only by the soft glow of her bedside lamp, but it’s not hers, not exactly – they must be in a hotel. Hotels have always held the promise of something exciting. Must be a hotel, because she can distantly hear other people, the sound of mumbled voices that aren’t their own children. Thank God. The sheets are soft, expensive-feeling, and part of her is surprised that James has clearly picked somewhere classy. Making an effort, that’s something she can get on board with. James’ hands are gentle as they card through her hair, pulling just a little in that way she likes. Perhaps he has been listening, noticing. ‘Gimme kiss’ she mumbles, and he does, firm lips against her softer ones, tasting of tea and red wine and smelling of sharp aftershave, always a little too much. When he pulls back to gaze at her, however, it’s not James at all. This has happened before – sometimes he gets swapped out for the chap who owns the bookshop, more than once he’s turned into Simon from Accounts, or the _young_ lad who remembers her coffee order, or even once the smiley, funny nurse lady who’d inserted her coil. A particularly embarrassing choice. This morning’s choice is not embarrassing. In some ways, it’s beyond embarrassing, more like mortifying, but it’s more than that. It’s misguided, mistaken, frankly dangerous. She’s never courted danger before in the bedroom. Not so much as a spanked bottom or a one-night fumble with someone from the office. It’s not worth the risk, not when you don’t even enjoy it that much. Something in last night’s hastily-purchased bottle of Australia’s fifteenth-finest pinot grigio from Tesco Express must have done this to her. She’ll write to the ombudsman, or the Trading Standards commission, or something. Someone. There will be a composed, measured, responsible email to be sent. Just as soon as she’s shagged the absolute life out of Malcolm Tucker. She does and doesn’t like the way he looks at her. It’s absolutely feral. This, really, really, isn’t a –

Her phone’s ringing. In real life, not the upside down universe inside her head. She really needs to see someone about her perceptions of reality. Completely round the twist. Few sandwiches short of a picnic, as her mother would say. ‘Fucking sex-starved’, as Gemma will say over their weekly takeaway night tonight. Perhaps she’ll suddenly develop a tummy bug between now and then. Although, saying that, Janet from the other side of the office wasn’t well yesterday, and she’s pretty sure she used the same mug as her. Can Fairy liquid kill diseases? Anyway, her phone’s ringing. She can ask whoever it is who has the nerve to call her at this time of the morning. Her spine clicks slightly as she rolls over to grab for her phone, eyes still closed. Except – it doesn’t really sound like her phone. It sounds like Old Phones, back when they used to sound all smooth and round and ringy. ‘Hello – ‘ someone says, and she nearly jumps out of her skin. What the ever-living fuck? Her eyes have opened reluctantly in all the commotion, and she’s just laid there staring up at her phone, wondering why it’s making noise but not doing anything. She even unlocks it, gazes at the lock screen of her and the kids on the beach in Dorset for a whole moment before she notices the time – 7:01 am. It was her alarm. She’s just about to give her little Google Home thingy a sharp ‘Hey Google, shut the fuck up’ before she realises she knows this song. Quite likes it actually. It reminds her of sitting on the bottom step in her university house, talking to God knows what sort of simpering History boy in those hideous floral pyjamas she used to think were the sexiest thing ever. At least on the phone nobody can see you. Bit hard to have phone sex in a shared house with one corded landline in the hallway, though. God, what is _wrong_ with her today? It takes her almost the whole song to recover from her short-lived shock, which thankfully has managed to push this morning’s dream right out of her conscious mind. It’s just wrapping up when she yawns and sits up, sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment as she thinks over what needs doing this morning. Washing, put the casserole in the slow cooker, kids will be home from James’ this afternoon – she’s humming along, remembering more of the words than she thought she did. ‘Gimme some time, I’m living in twilight’ she mumbles, and it sounds suspiciously like some of the Confidence Mantras Penny is making her recite on a weekly basis in her therapy sessions. She’s actually even narrowing her eyes for a moment in suspicious consideration, eyebrows meeting in the middle for a moment. Just a moment, mind – the song fades out, and she settles into a more comfortable expression at the understanding she’s about to hear Chris, the highlight of her mornings. He’s just so cheeky, so funny, and though most of that’s probably just the Northern Irish accent, and he’s probably not all that good-looking since he’s on breakfast radio, she does have a bit of a soft spot for him. Interesting choice, though, for Chris. It’s normally more Take That and classic early 2000’s stuff – Mummy songs, as Ben diplomatically described it.

‘Morning, morning folks – ‘ the presenter begins, and Nicola nearly swallows her tongue. _That_ , is not Chris. No fucking way. ‘Chris is off on his holidays, so you’ve got me for the week…’ It would have been enough to piss her off at the best of times, she hates change to her routines, and she especially hates it when they fuck around with her favourite radio station. This particular change, however, is beyond comprehension. It’s as if they swapped out Kate Humble and Chris Packham on Springwatch for Jeremy Clarkson and Prince Charles. It’s utterly – inexplicably – wrong on every level. What does _he_ even know about music, for Christ’s sake? Where’s Chris??

‘… and then I’m back with you lovely folks in the week, ten till twelve midnight for all you shift workers and insomniacs – and those of you who are simply quite boring – for Tucker’s Top Twenty. There will’nae be twenty, we’ve got two hours, but tha’s just what I’m callin it until they tell me otherwise. Probably only have time fae twenty, by time I’ve stopped chattin’ – here’s John Cooper Clarke, with The Day My Pad Went Mad – just incase ye haven’t woke up properly yet – and I hope yer not taking yer kiddies to school – ‘ The inane chat fades out into the song, and Nicola really is lost for words. It doesn’t happen often. He’s surely taking the piss. Someone has hired him for this? And they wouldn’t even book her on Women’s Hour for a one-off guest hosting special? And yet they’ve hired him, to do the Breakfast Show, playing songs about cats being stabbed and parrots being bound and gagged? At five past seven in the morning? She needs a fucking shower. ‘Hey Google’ she huffs, wishing she had a direct line to the studio instead of just standing here in her nightie talking to the little computer circle that is pretty much her sole source of conversation when the kids aren’t here – ‘stop.’ If only it all bloody would.

The shower hardly helps, the soft new towels she’d ordered in the M&S Sale remind her of hotels, which in turn reminds her of her dream, and the fact that it was never really about James at all, it never really ever is, and it’s all a little too much for this early on a Monday morning. A little cry is had, just a few, as a treat, before she pulls herself together and pours some shampoo into her palm. If she tugs at her hair a little as she washes it, nobody needs to know. There’s still some parts of her life that are private, thank fuck. It sort of feels like an imposition, that he just appeared like that, in her dream bed and her actual bedroom – she’d been doing so well at keeping him out of her head. She might not – she won’t – tell Penny about this. There’s really no need. Just a dream, and an inconceivably poor choice of stand in D-list celebrity. Bad luck, is all. Could have been anyone. It wasn’t just _anyone_ , but still, the point is it could have been – she needs to stop thinking about it. Going to drive herself mad. Even madder. Still – it could have been anyone, and that’s the line she’s sticking to. It’s just a fluke, one of those sickening coincidences that makes you think you saw an ex or someone recently departed outside the bank on the high street at four o’clock on a rainy Wednesday. It’s a something and a nothing. It feels like a risk to start lathering herself up with the soft, milky shower gel she usually prefers, so she grabs the invigorating lemon bottle instead and goes for an utterly utilitarian underarms, underbelly, between the toes. The toes are too often forgotten. Nicola never forgets.


	2. Twit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicola can't bloody stand this. She's simply got to Do Something About It.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's tune is 24 Hour Party People by Happy Mondays with thanks to the wonderful Dickovny for the inspo.
> 
> (This chapter contains brief references to (giving up) dieting)

On the Tuesday, she doesn’t hear him at all, and it’s blissful. She wakes up to the familiar sound of Nick Robinson bollocking a junior minister on the Today programme, and scoffs sleepily at the government’s latest fuck up on childcare vouchers before switching it off and enjoying a lazy, long shower in which she thinks of nothing at all. Not Malcolm, not James, not her upcoming deadlines, nothing except whether she could get a few weeks off work, one fortnight when James has the kids, and heavily sedate herself enough to fly off to the Seychelles. Tuesdays are her day off work, which she tends to fill with housework and life admin and phone calls to energy providers, except this week she’s actually organised a treat for herself. Christ knows she needs it. Haircut (proper one, not just a trim), a coffee and lunch out, and then she’s off to get her nails done, which is really just more of an opportunity to gossip with Gemma. Though she insists on always paying the going rate. The morning passes into the afternoon while she’s waiting for the soft highlights to bed in, and lunch consists of a vanilla latte with two sugars and a chunky cinnamon roll with more icing than she can possibly comprehend, whilst trying not to blatantly check herself out in the coffee shop window. She looks _good_. There’s really no harm in admitting it, especially not very quietly under her breath, all to herself in the busy clatter of the coffee shop. Penny would be proud.

‘Nic!! – Hi, darling! Come in, come in, I’ve got bubbles’ Gemma trills when she opens the door at around four, and Nic’s immediately grateful she decided to walk over. Four is really a little early for bubbles, but she doesn’t have the kids, and she won’t drink enough to have a hangover. Not least because she needs to be in the office for half seven tomorrow, to get all that stuff about the Summer Stroll Trail ready for the management meeting. Still – a singular glass of prosecco has only ever done her good. ‘Thanks, Gem. Just the one, though, got work tomorrow’ she reminds her, knowing that Gemma won’t pay the slightest bit of attention. The afternoon is filled with giggles and bubbles and soft pink-hued nude nail polish, angling her fingers just so under the lamp to set them rock hard without smudging them. When Gemma gestures for her to slide them out, she takes a moment just to gaze at her own hands, lightly tanned still from the summer, topped off with long, almond shaped nails in a blush colour that reminds her of nighties and roses. She feels fucking _great_. Until Gemma tidies up her work station and shepherds Nicola through to the living room, sitting down next to her on the sofa and giving her The Look. Here comes the bloody Inquisition. ‘Is that your Malcolm Tucker that’s got the new breakfast show?’ Gemma asks, as if it’s in any way an innocent question, all long lashes and wild curls, smiling softly at Nicola as if she doesn’t know better. ‘Shut up, Gem’ she warns her, not unkindly, but more forcefully than her friend is used to. ‘It is! I thought it was – because you were always saying how sexy his accent was, and – ‘ Gemma pauses, realising too late what she’s said. Stupid woman. ‘I’d really rather not talk about it, Gem’ Nicola says tightly, starting to nibble on her bottom lip, and to Gemma’s credit she lets it go for once. For now.

Come nine o’clock on Wednesday, Nicola has made a number of resolutions. One: she’s too bloody nice. She’d prepped everything for the big meeting, sent it all out in advance by email so they could actually have a productive conversation about costings and logistics and marketing, and nobody fucking read it. The feeling of being sat in a conference room being ignored, in a suit skirt that feels deeply claustrophobic, and M&S tights that make her legs itch as she starts to flush anxiously, is one she thought she’d left behind when she was driven out of Westminster for the last time. Not so, apparently. The pervasive, itchy feeling of being a doormat followed her here too, as much as she tried to re-invent herself. Perfect. Just what she fucking needed, this week of all weeks. Still – she has nice nails. And nice hair. And a fucking excellent brain, and she’s funny, even if other people don’t think so, and she’s better than this, better than all of it. She needs something better, now. Working here was perfect for that period just after being sacked, where she needed something easy and wholesome and friendly to ease her back into the idea of being employed, but she’s over it now. Utterly over it all. Two: she’s going to stop dieting. All she wants when she gets back from the meeting is a bacon roll and latte with more syrup than can possibly be advisable, but what she’s able to dig out of her handbag is a rather elderly banana, a crushed cereal bar and some mints. Fuck’s sake. It’s all bollocks anyway, she’s far too old to change what she looks like now, so she may as well embrace the middle-aged spread. Plus, she’s pretty sure Simon was checking her out as she bent over to sort out the projector earlier, even if he wasn’t listening to what she was saying. That’s half a win, at the very least.

Third: she’s going to fucking kill whoever put _his_ bloody show on the office radio. There’s an unspoken rule that they listen to colourless easy listening or vintage stations only, nothing too loud or too Busy. Not, under any circumstance, a bright excitable Malcolm Tucker playing _24 Hour Party People_ at just gone nine. Who the hell put this on? Kevin’s desk is closest to the radio, and he’s tapping his fingers on the desk, and she honestly thinks about walking over there and stapling them to the wood so he’ll stop making that fucking _noise_. ‘Hope yer all havin’ a good one, I know I am, and there's plenty more to come – ‘ Malcolm promises as he fades it out into equally something obnoxious and shouty, and it’s utterly Too Much for Nicola’s aggravated nerves. She’s going to get that bloody bacon roll. She might not come back. She digs her purse out of her handbag, tucks her phone into her jacket pocket, and hopes the door slams as she storms out like a woman hell-bent on exacting revenge. It feels fucking good, storming around the corridors of the Georgian manor house the Trust has converted into their offices, and she thinks for a moment as she usually does about the women who have occupied this space before her. At least they could just run away to the Continent to get away from a man they used to – well, whatever it was. In today’s world, everything about him seems utterly inescapable. A strong coffee and some breakfast helps a little, and thankfully there’s no music in the café, just the sound of scraping cutlery and Joanie humming Elvis songs to herself softly behind the counter. It’s her favourite place in the whole building, looking out onto the gardens through the conservatory style windows, and she almost manages to relax as she finishes her breakfast and pulls out her phone.

Gemma’s retweeted a promo video for Malcolm’s show. There’s a fucking behind-the-scenes video of him in the studio, and it feels like a direct attack on her hard won sense of tentative, shaky calm. He looks – so different. Healthier, warmer – softer in a way that makes her fingers shake softly with the desire to scritch at his longer hair, all untamed curls and utterly, unashamedly grey. He’s got that fucking fleece on again, exactly the same one. She wants to consume him and slap him at the same time. She stares at the video for a few moments, sound off, just watching the way he moves and gesticulates and grins, toothy and lopsided and utterly – wild – she practically growls, and it’s – it’s – fuck knows, but it’s Too Much and she hates it. Before she can consciously think about it she’s made a throwaway Twitter account, one of those faceless ‘@deborah1066’ handles and the egg-icon that immediately identifies you as a troll or a racist, or both. Nicola is not an impulsive person. When she does have impulses, un-thought-through, ill-considered flights of fancy, she tends to act on them purely because they take her utterly by surprise. Her brain is used to doing exactly what it wants at all times, on the understanding that if something ends up being a bad idea, it usually only impacts herself in the form of working herself into a tizzy. The worst she’s capable of doing is being over-anxious, or a little sharp when stressed, so in the absence of a truly terrible dark side to hide, she has by the age of fifty essentially lost her filter. She trusts herself absolutely, without second-guessing, in a way that perhaps she shouldn’t. Though none of this comes anywhere near crossing her mind as she follows the link to Malcolm’s profile. Sparse on the personal details, but warm and personable and filled with content about his favourite bands and pictures of the Scottish coast and particularly good breakfasts he’s enjoyed. He’s writing a fucking memoir. He’s got a bloody _dog_. Knowing he’s happy only makes her angrier.

_@AbsolutelyTuckered is bloody awful on the breakfast show @Radio6London. Bring back Chris!! Can’t imagine his evening show being much better either – noisy, meaningless crap._


	3. Going Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm muses on his new Twitter activity.

@AbsolutelyTuckered is bloody awful on the breakfast show @Radio6London. Bring back Chris!! Can’t imagine his evening show being much better either – noisy, meaningless crap.

@deborah1066 who the fuck asked you? Sour faced egg.

@AbsolutelyTuckered even your dog looks like she hates you. Most women do.

@ddebora1066 is this getting you off? Miserable hag.

@AbsolutelyTuckered Still a wanker, I see.

* * *

He's trying to manouevre his way onto the Circle Line at the same time as trying to reply to whoever the fuck this rancid old bitch is, and without the necessary focus and ruthless elbow digging, he gets left on the platform as the train screeches away. Fucks sake. He's going to be late home now, and that definitely won't go down well with Her Indoors. He pockets his phone before it gets nicked, looking up at the "Next service" board. Five of his living minutes? Fucking _hell._ The platform is nearly empty now, and he considers the nearby bench for a moment, completely dead on his feet. Then reconsiders sharpish, on account of general grime. Malcolm doesn't do grime. He doesn't even particularly like the Tube, and he could easily afford a cab still, but - it makes a change. He never used to get the Tube. It still makes him a little anxious, watching his mobile signal and 4G blink out of existence as soon as he descends the escalator, but some days he's immensely grateful to be confined to the rocking, screeching sardine can without access to the outside world. In a hellish sort of way, it breaks up his days, give him a dedicated period of time in which the only thing to do is to sit with your own thoughts. At least he actually has somewhere to go these days, rather than just wandering around for hours on pretence of errands that he didn't really need to do. He's still not quite sure who he was pretending for. It's not like Fliss ever cared whether he was a collosal fuck up whose phone only ever rang for a total of four people. That's sort of why he loves her.

Once he reaches civilisation again, armed with his backpack (he feels _five_ , but it was that or a fucking satchel) and a small restock of essentials courtesy of M&S, he's made a plan. Blinking out into the filmy, grey sunlight of London, mole-like, he reaches for his phone and presses 2 for Sammy. She's in the gym, hopefully, considering how out of breath she sounds. "Hi, darling. What do you need?" She asks, and he pauses for a moment to assess - he doesn't hear the muffled shuffling of bedsheets, the whispered hiss of a "tell him to fuck off" from Rachel, so they're probably okay. "Nothin, if you're busy" he promises, but she's not having it. "Not busy, just doing some leg weights. My upper body and my brain are available for your every need" Sam grins, and he's desperately glad he can hear the smile through the phone. She's always skating just along the line, calling him out for being utterly dependent and demanding without once making him actually feel like a bad person. "Can ye send me a file on Deborah's? Ones I've met, aye, or might have made an impression on." Bizarrely, she says she'll have it for him in the next half hour, which must mean Rach isn't there, so she has nothing to stare at.

He's just clicked the door shut when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, and it must be Sam because Jamie's still on his dirty weekend and Gracie's phone is usually in a toybox or down the toilet. Still, there's another lady in his life he needs to see to first. Fliss comes bounding down the stairs as soon as she hears him, all 30 kilos of bright, bouncy Boxer, tangling herself around his legs to make up for not being allowed to jump up and kiss him. "Hello, gorgeous. Hello. Did ye miss me? Hey? Did you like the show? Yeah? Good girl. Got you some apples" he grins, and she immediately sits down in front of him, ears forward and eyes sparkly. "Come on then, dozy thing. Come on." She trots along beside him to the kitchen, crunching up her apple as he unpacks the rest of the shopping. The fridge is full of colour and scent and excitement, part genuine love and interest, and partly to avoid the inevitable slide into ready meals for one. They taunt him in the supermarkets, especially the bitty little station shops where lonely middle aged fucks like him seem to shop en masse, and he refuses to give in just yet. When he's old, arthritic, with no teeth, he'll be grateful that he hadn't touched a ready meal before in his life. It'll give him more to choose from, a sense of artificial excitement that you need at that stage of life.

There's a rich, spicy curry sauce on the go before he has a chance to read Sams message, which turns out to be a detailed email of everything she's been able to uncover from the Twitter account (very little), and an attached spreadsheet of every Deborah she can think of. He scrolls through slowly, looking for a likely suspect. They're all a bit too - meaningless. Journalists, but they all just abuse him from their work accounts, a couple of backbenchers and junior ministers, but nobody who he remembers pissing off in particular. A couple of norms, the woman from the Commons Terrace canteen, his sister's hypnobirthing coach - how does Sam even know that? - but he can't fathom a grudge they'd have against him. Unless Debs from the Terrace has finally lost it for him and Jamie always nicking the jellies, ten years later. He doubts it. Besides, they always paid her back handsomly at Christmastime, straight into the pocket of her little pinny. Nope, deborah1066 definitely isn't any of these people, but she definitely knows him. He spends another few long minutes thinking, until Fliss whines under the table, sniffing hopefully for a king prawn that he's been mindlessly de-shelling without thinking about it. "Only if ye stop staring at me when I get out of the shower" he reminds her, chucking a prawn at her as he gets up to finish dinner. God, he needs a girlfriend.


	4. Resignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicola is trying her best to move on with her life. Without Malcolm. Not that she was ever With Malcolm.

The thing about thinking about quitting your job is, once you’ve started, you can’t go back. As soon as the thought briefly crossed her mind, before she stormed out of the office in search of breakfast, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. All that afternoon, and most of the night. Mind you, that happened with divorcing James too, and it still took her about five years to actually do it. But not this time – something’s gotten into her lately. A sense of ‘life’s too fucking short’. She doesn’t want to spend too long thinking about where that might have come from. Instead, from bed, at seven o’clock in the morning with the kids stamping around getting dressed like a small troop of elephants, she does something about it. For once.

* * *

Dear Louise,

Please accept this email as notice of my resignation from the post of Marketing and Fundraising Manager at The National Trust. Working for the Trust has been a rewarding and enjoyable experience, but no longer satisfies my ambitions. Many thanks for all your help and support over the past two years – I will remember my time here fondly.

I will be working my two weeks notice from home – do let me know if there is anything I can do to help with finding a replacement.

With very best wishes,

Nicola Thornton

_Marketing and Fundraising Manager_

_The National Trust_

_Please note: my working hours are 9:30 to 4:30, Monday to Friday._

* * *

Even looking at the word ‘resignation’ makes her stomach cramp a little, so she writes it and sends it in a matter of minutes. Typos be damned, she really couldn’t care less anymore. She’ll find something else, just something to keep the kids in branded hazelnut spread, now that there’s no mortgage to worry about. She’d sorted that as soon as possible after the divorce, a way of cutting all ties to Big Men in Suits. She’s her own woman now. Unemployed, single, knocking on the door of fifty, with more greys than she knows how to hide, two kids away being grown ups who she never sees and two who sound like they’re currently wrestling at the top of the steep staircase. Bloody excellent. Perhaps she’ll have a gin and tonic for breakfast.

The one saving grace of the morning is that Chris is back on the breakfast show. Which must mean that Malcolm’s moved to his evening show, but she hardly cares – she’s never up that late, so it doesn’t matter to her. She feels a little guilty about Twitter abusing him a few nights ago, but she doubts he paid it more than five minutes notice. Probably gets it all the time, even now. Malcolm Tucker is unforgettable, in all the best and worst ways. She cannot say the same for herself – she’d thought about calling up some old colleagues from her law days, on the off chance that anyone knows of an opening, but they’d probably all hang up on her. Nicola Thornton was not a particularly memorable person, and the woman they knew was worlds away from the Nicola Murray they might have vaguely known of, and even further away from whatever the fuck she is now. It’s been jarring, going back to her maiden name – it reminds her of nightclubs, heavy folders of legal material, T.Rex, vodka, more than once vodka at her desk. Big hair, big eyes, even bigger ambitions. Now she feels like she’s danced herself into the tomb. What on Earth is she going to do without a job?

She hardly has a moment to think about it now, too busy wiping Rosie’s coco-pop milk moustache and bundling her into the car beside Ben, who like every morning is already sitting there waiting for his scatter-brained mother to get her act together. Give it a few more years and he’ll be driving himself to _college_ , which is enough to make the soft baby hairs stand up on the back of her neck. There’s the usual one-way chorus of ‘have fun! Be good! See you later, love you lots!’ as she deposits Rosie at primary school, the soft cocoon of childhood where she has only a few more weeks to marinate in maternal, linen-smelling teachers and established friendship groups before her little world will be turned upside down by the introduction of Big School. She really doesn’t want to think about _that,_ either – nor the endless summer holidays that will stretch out before then, without even the distraction of having a job to go to. Perhaps she can just keep pretending she’s going, drop them off with her mum and go and drink coffee all day every day. It sounds deeply tempting.

Ben has banned her from actually dropping him off at school, so she parks up on a nearby side street and is grateful when he spots a small group of kids he knows from Geography Club. At least that makes him slightly less likely to get abducted on the 50m walk to the main gates. She’s supposed to be working from home, technically, but there’s no reason why that can’t mean working from coffee shop, especially since she no longer gives a fuck. Her laptop is tucked into her tote bag (‘World’s Okayest Mummy’) on the back seat, so she heads off towards the big Costa on the edge of the retail park. It’s hardly supportive of local business, but it’s bright and tidy and has plenty of plugs. Plus she doesn’t feel bad for staying all morning on just one latte. By the time she gets settled, with the obligatory latte and croissant, she feels a little better about the whole thing – she can find a new job, surely. It took her all of five minutes to find this one, she can be charming when she wants to be, and Former Leader of the Opposition never looks bad on a CV. Opening up her emails, she deletes a couple of online order confirmations before her attention is caught by her phone buzzing in her back pocket. Christ’s sake.

‘Mrs Murray?’ She bites back on a deep sigh. ‘Not really, but sure. Who is it?’ She can sense that whoever it is at the other end of the phone is a little confused. ‘It’s Paul. Y’know, Paul Young, from Albin & Co? We worked together on that big case in the City, the tax fraud thing.’ The memory, combined with the fact that Paul sounds _old_ now, is almost enough to make her drop her phone. He was always so, well, _young_ , bright and optimistic and cheerful, especially when they’d finish up a big case with a few drinks and their tongues in each other’s mouths. He’d give her this grin, lighting up whatever dark corner or moonlit alley they’d found themselves in, and it made her fingers shake in a way James never did. In fact, she’s only ever felt that a few times since, and not once in her marriage. Bloody hell. ‘Oh! Hi, Paul. I’m Nicola Thornton now, actually’ she explains, hoping it doesn’t sound like a come on. They talk for a short while, Nicola careful not to stick her foot in anything – she thankfully remembers that Paul’s wife passed away a few years ago, remembers that she couldn’t make the funeral because of childcare and _fucking_ Malcolm. ‘It’s so nice to hear from you’ she blurts out without thinking about it, which is true, but a little embarrassingly eager. It seems to gently nudge him into remembering why he called, though. ‘S’nice to speak to you too, Nicky.’ She winces a little, trying not to let it put her off. He doesn’t know any better, she always used to be Nicky. He fills the silence before she can correct him again. Names are so fucking complicated. ‘I was just wondering if you wanted to go for a drink – and we’ve got an opportunity just come up here, think it would be good for you. If you’ve not got anything on?’ She’s never got anything on. She can’t quite work out if it’s a come on or a career opportunity, but either sounds good at present. Either or both. ‘Sure, sounds great. I’m – sort of between jobs at the moment. So – just text me when and where?’ They agree to catch up again towards the end of the week, and then he’s gone. Well _that_ was weird. Weirdly nice. Nicely weird.


	5. Dedication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night is thinking. it’s thinking of love. (richard siken)_

‘- I mean, you were always the best dressed one in the office’ Paul insists, his cheeks slightly flushed from the second cheapest bottle of red on the menu, his lips slightly shiny with a gloss of butter from his steak – predictable, ever so predictable. She demurs, fussing with a forkful of pasta that hasn’t quite made it to her mouth over the past five minutes. Every time she goes to lift her fork, he asks her a question, or says something that’s very slightly off-putting. After a moment, she realises he’s still looking at her. All these years, moments, later. ‘I’m entirely sure I wasn’t’, she protests, setting her fork down against the side of the ridiculously large, deep bowl. They’re quite pretty, really – maybe she’ll get some. The deep teal colour appeals to her, especially in contrast to the cream of the inner bowl, the richness of the carbonara that’s nestled within. It’s good - good pasta. Not quite as good as – ‘shut up, of course you were.’ Her fingers twitch ever so slightly against the edge of the table. She _hates_ being told to shut up. Fuck off, fuck off and die, fuck off and never come back, ‘fuck off, just fuck off and leave me then, if that’s what you want’ – she can handle that, but ‘shut up’ crosses the line. ‘Don’t – ‘ she begins, then falters, wondering if she can turn it into ‘don’t flatter me’, but she’s been far too sharp since the get-go to turn back now. ‘Don’t tell me to shut up, please.’ The please was probably unnecessary.

To Paul’s credit, he doesn’t make it awkward. All the requisite next steps of The Date are followed – she manages to finish her pasta uninterrupted, eventually, trying her best not to be drawn into unfavourable comparisons, and they talk politely but without enthusiasm about the general topics. Work, of course, though he still hasn’t mentioned that opportunity, and she is beginning to wonder whether the career advancement was conditional on still being attractive, amusing company – it usually is, and she’s probably fucked it. Still. There are worse things to be than principled, and one of them is being dragged around at will by people who don’t give a shit about the principles in question. She will not work for a man who tells her to shut up, not again, not in this version of the story. She’s rewriting. He pays, which helps ease over the prickling embarrassment of it all, and waits with her for her cab, which makes it flare again, a stinging heat of ‘fuck off, I don’t need protecting, I fucking _dare_ someone to abduct me’ spreading across her chest under her specially selected shirt. She doesn’t say it – sometimes she still doesn’t say it.

By the time she gets home, the prickly heat has eased, and she starts to wonder if she’s been a little hasty. ‘At your age, Nicola, you don’t get many opportunities’ she reminds herself, in an internal voice that’s a disturbing combination of James and her mother. They’d both been telling her that, in different contexts, for at least five years – so she must be practically left on the shelf by now, a discount diva, over-selling, yet under-valued. She’s the supermarket own brand washing powder, yelling at you about whitest whites and brightest colours, and yet she feels dull, washed out. The hallway is littered with evidence of her untimely return, shoes abandoned, jacket over the bannister, the kids farmed out to her mums on the assumption that she might not be home till late. And yet here she is, ten o’clock, in the kitchen, in her tights, alone. Fucking _hell_ , Nicola. Stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself, sad sack. No woman can have a shit evening when she’s got wine in and double A batteries in her bedside drawer. The smile she adopts is barely genuine, more muscle memory, but it relaxes her a little, as does the soft blub-blub-blub of white wine tumbling into the glass from height, simply because it makes her laugh. Even here, alone, in the unlit kitchen, the tiles cold against her toes, there is joy, and entertainment, even in the silliest little things – she refuses to forget that again.

Her skirt is unzipped before she even reaches the stairs, and it slips down slightly as she ascends, making her yelp as it slides down to around her thighs as she takes the last few steps, leaving her not only bound around the legs by the shiny (vegetarian) leather and unable to move, but also with her arse on display. To no-one, of course, but it makes her laugh all the same, once the shock of the chill has worn off. Stepping out of her restraints and across to her bedroom, she tosses the skirt into (onto) the laundry basket and puts the bedside light on. There’s a warmth to the dim light, a gently pink glow from the delicately patterned glass that makes up the lamp – it’s blatant faux glamour, not expensive enough to be truly classy, but she loves it and it’s only her taste that matters now. ‘Hey, Google’ she murmurs, leaving a pause as if she’ll respond to her. Google blinks awake, three soft little circles of light the only response she gets. ‘Play Radio London’.

For the second time that night, she had under-appreciated the consequences of her actions. It’s Malcolm who joins her, there in her _bedroom_ , between velvet blankets that smell like Summer Breeze. It feels unbearably intimate, hearing him here, rather than in the halls of the Parliamentary estate, the well-mapped nooks and corners where dark wood furniture and the smell of dust provided a haze of anonymity, a feeling that it wasn’t really you. Not you, that flirted like a starlet, not you who perfected the head tilt, the eyelash flutter, the big, innocent Diana-esque eyes. Not guilty, your Honour. Your Conscience, however – not so easily assuaged. ‘Right-o, time for some dedications’ Malcolm says brightly, and the word stick in the back of her throat – dedication, dedication, Malcolm Fucking _Martyr_ Tucker. The world is an elaborate practical joke designed to embarrass her, she’s never been so sure of it.

‘This one’s from Helen – uh – this one’s from Helen, for her wife, Nicole. Here’s Pulp, _Something’s Changed_.’ It’s so close, so unbearably close that it aches, like a wasted opportunity, a ruined orgasm, a bus missed because you were too afraid that people might look at you if you ran until you could taste blood in your mouth, screaming for it to _stay_. Far too unbearably close for comfort. There are so many happy memories tangled up in this song, so happy that they’ve become sharp around the edges, liable to wound if handled on the wrong day, in the wrong way, and yet she can’t bring herself to ask for it to stop. Instead she just sits, half-naked, on the edge of the bed, feet not quite touching the floor, not quite crying, not quite holding it together. Somehow her candy-coloured cocoon, her relentless commitment to being happy alone, is fraying at the edges, a well-loved blanket caught in the snag of a ring and pulled taught, never looking quite right again. It’s all too much, too close, and yet not quite _there_. The ache of it all, once repressed, now re-surfaces with the sharp sting of a papercut discovered on introduction to a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. She knows herself better, in a small way, than she did this morning. For a moment she wonders if when she wakes, the sun will be hazy and solemn, in recognition of remembered grief.


End file.
